


Unseen Feet and Dead Ideas

by Triangulum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Fluff, Haunted Hale House, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Medium!Stiles, ghosts and demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 10:40:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11827020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: Peter has never put any stock into ghost stories. Sure, when he was a kid and his parents told scary stories by the campfire, he'd jump and his heart would beat a little bit faster, but that's it. So when his nieces and nephews start whispering about the pack house being haunted, he doesn't really pay any attention.ORThe Hale house is haunted, and Stiles is Deaton's strange colleague who's called in to help.





	Unseen Feet and Dead Ideas

Peter has never put any stock into ghost stories. Sure, when he was a kid and his parents told scary stories by the campfire, he'd jump and his heart would beat a little bit faster, but that's it. So when his nieces and nephews start whispering about the pack house being haunted, he doesn't really pay any attention. 

Talia and her husband are out for date night, and Laura, Derek, and Cora all have better things to do than sit at home on a Friday night, so Peter is stuck babysitting the younger kids. He has them all down for the night (finally) and is in his room reading. Peter's bedroom is on the second floor at the end of the hall, the nieces and nephews scattered in the surrounding rooms (since he doesn't have a mate, Talia doesn't see a reason for him to move into one of the master suites on the third floor. Bitch.). 

The house was soundproofed years ago, which is really a necessity when living with werewolves, but Peter still tends to leave his door cracked open to hear just in case anything happens. That's the only reason he hears the whimper. He pauses in turning the page of his book, just in case he imagined it, but then he hears it again. Peter's out of his bed in an instant. He doesn't hear anything out in the hall, no footsteps or breathing, but he's still cautious. When he opens the door all the way and still hears and sees nothing, he steps into the hall.

Another whimper and Peter immediately zeros in on Matty's room two doors down. Since he can't smell or hear anyone else, he assumes Matty has to be asleep and in the middle of a nightmare, but when he pushes open the door, Matty's sitting straight up in bed, blankets clutched around him.

"Uncle Peter!" Matty says and launches himself up into Peter's arms. 

"Hey, kiddo," Peter says, rubbing a hand over the boy's back and he buries his face in Peter's chest. "What is it?"

"He keeps turning the lights on and off," Matty says. 

"Who? Johnathon?" Peter asks. He hadn't heard Matty's older brother get up.

"No, the boy in the blue shirt," Matty says. 

Peter frowns and looks around. There's no one in the room, no scent of anyone either. 

"It was just a bad dream," Peter says. "Try to go back to sleep."

"No!" Matty says and tightens his hold on Peter. "Please, can I sleep with you?"

Peter holds back a sigh. He really doesn't want an eight-year-old in his room (he's very private with his space), but knowing Matty, he won't give up easily.

"Fine," Peter says. "Just for tonight."

It takes Matty a while to fall asleep, but he finally does, huddled into Peter's side. Talia coos when she comes home and checks on them. Peter flips her off.

The next morning, Peter, who is exhausted from sharing a bed with a kicky eight-year-old, is sleepily making pancakes when Jonathon stumbles into the room. At twelve, he's starting to think he's way too cool to hang out with his family all the time, but he always makes an appearance for breakfast food.

"You look like crap," Johnathon says.

"Look who's talking," Peter says. Talia would probably prefer if he were to tell her kids to use better language, but he's their uncle, he doesn't care at all.

"Yeah well Matty was messing with the lights all night and I couldn't sleep," Johnathon grumbles, plunking himself down at the kitchen table. 

Peter pauses halfway through flipping a pancake.

"What?" he asks.

"Matty kept running into my room and flick the lights on and off and run away," Johnathon says. 

"What time?" Peter asks.

"All night!" Johnathon says. "I'd fall asleep and an hour later my lights would be flickering on and off."

"Matty slept with me last night," Peter says.

Johnathon looks up from where he's flipping through a magazine, eyes wide.

"What?"

Peter debates telling Johnathon about Matty saying he had trouble with his lights, but he knows how overactive his imagination is and doesn't want to scare him over an electrical issue. 

"I'll talk to your mom about calling an electrician, there's probably a problem with the wiring," Peter says. Which makes sense, the house has been in their family for generations and Peter has no idea when it was last looked at.

The thing is, the electrician comes out the next week and says everything is fine. The house is completely up to code, not problem with the breaker box or anything. Peter's puzzled, maybe the electrician isn't as good as he thought, but a couple of weeks go by without anyone having troubles, so he lets it go. Matty's been sleeping fine in his room, Johnathon has no complaints, then he overhears Laura talking to Derek when he walks into the living room.

"It just shattered, I don't know if it was too hot or what, but there was glass everywhere?"

"What shattered?" Peter asks.

Laura pauses her video game, making Derek grumble, and looks over to Peter.

"My light bulb," Laura says. "My light kept turning on last night. I'd get up to turn it off, but the switch was still down and it didn't matter how many times I flicked it, it would just stay on, then turn itself off a few minutes later. I was so close to finally falling asleep and it gets really bright and shatters."

"Are you okay?" Peter asks.

"Yeah, it was just over the carpet mostly," Laura says. 

"I'll call another electrician," Peter says.

"Another?" Laura asks.

"Matty and Johnathon both had trouble with their lights a few weeks ago when you were out of town," Peter says.

"Oh," Laura says, frowning. "Weird."

Peter at this point is just annoyed. They'd paid a well-recommended electrician to tell them everything was fine. An exploding light bulb is less than fine. He glances up at the TV when Laura starts the game again, then the screen flickers before going black. The PS4 is off, the cable box, everything. 

"What the hell?" Derek says. 

Derek picks up the remote and hits the power button, making the TV flicker to life. It's on for a few seconds, then abruptly turns off again. Derek tries again, and again, then gets up and unplugs the TV and plugs it back in. It doesn't help. The TV will stay on for a minute tops, then shut itself off.

There's silence for a long time as they stare at the TV in confusion. Then, without anyone touching it, it turns back on.

"Yeah, I'm going to call an electrician," Peter says.

He manages to get someone to come out that day, and she says the same thing that the first guy did. So does the next electrician, and the one after that. Peter's ready to tear his hair out because he has no idea what's going on, but sometimes he'll be walking down the hall and the lights will start to flicker. He'll be in the bathroom and the fan will cut out. He'll be in the middle of making his morning smoothie and the blender will stop. 

The thing is...electrical issues aren't the only strange things that start happening. Little things will go missing or end up somewhere else. Peter can explain away the remote ending up in the kitchen, it'd be easy enough to accidentally take it with you when you're getting a snack, or the keys not being in the bowl by the door, but on the kitchen table. But he doesn't know why his cuff links find their way into the kitchen when he can smell that no one else has been in his room. He doesn't know how the blanket that had been in the washer is now sitting in the hallway, sopping wet. He can't explain away why Matty's teddy bear is sitting in the middle of Peter's bed when Matty has been at school for hours. He also can't figure out why the cord for the lamp is swinging wildly when he looks up from whatever he's reading.

Peter's a logical man, so when he hears whispers around the house, he assumes the kids are home and playing. He ignores it for awhile, especially when he hears a door slam and assumes someone is coming home, before he realizes he can hear the voices, but no heartbeats. Peter walks the house and finds no one else home. He looks up auditory matrixing and thinks he's found his answer, but he still can't help but be unnerved when he's reading in bed and hears someone shout, "PETER!" as if they're right next to him.

Peter doesn't know what the fuck is going on. He's hesitant to say anything to Talia because really, what is she going to think about Peter saying he's hearing voices? But other people have started to notice strange things happening. Someone brings up the idea that maybe fairies are playing jokes, but the local fae are notoriously shy and keep very much to themselves (no one has even met one except for Talia when she became alpha). Mostly, pack members will just glance at each other when something bizarre happens, as if to say, "You see that, too, right?"

It comes to a bit of a head when Cora and Peter are getting ready for dinner. It's Peter and Cora's turn to cook and the rest of the pack is in the dining room or living room. Peter enjoys spending his time with Cora, especially cooking. It's something they're both good at and considering how large their family is, it's nice to be able to do something one-on-one. Cora's washing the tomatoes and Peter's seasoning the fish when Cora turns and opens her mouth to ask him something, and freezes, eyes looking at something over Peter's shoulder. Peter's whirls around to see a water glass hovering in mid air, five feet above the ground. 

Cora's heartbeat is loud and fast and Peter's isn't much different. The glass hovers for a moment, then drops, crashing to the ground and spraying glass everywhere. Peter's never heard Cora scream before now, but she shrieks and jumps back, sliding a bit on the broken glass. Before Peter can search for some clue to what happened (maybe a fairy after all?) every single cabinet door flies open at once. Peter's completely frozen because okay, this he really can't explain. 

They hear footsteps and seconds later, Talia and her husband David are rushing in, stopping short at the sight of glass on the ground and the open cabinets.

"What happened?" Talia asks.

"We're fucking haunted!" Cora shouts.

"Language, Cora!" Talia says. 

"This is the appropriate language! We just had a goddamn glass levitate itself and all the cabinets flung themselves open!" Cora says. 

"That's not possible, you must have dropped - "

"I did _not_!"

Talia looks to Peter, as if she's expecting him to refute what Cora's saying, but Peter, still a bit wide-eyed himself, shakes his head.

"We didn't do any of this," Peter says, gesturing around at the kitchen. 

She doesn't believe them, Peter realizes. Or she doesn't want to. David looks more open to it, but still. This is the first time Peter really regrets being somewhat of a 'troublemaker', as Talia would say, and giving her good reason to not believe him.

"Listen to our heartbeats," Peter says. "We aren't lying."

Talia listens, no doubt hearing the way their hearts are racing, at the smell of (Peter isn't ashamed to admit it) fear rolling off of them.

"Call Deaton," Talia says to David. "Get him out here."

Cora sags in relief next to Peter and he wraps his arm around her. Cora leans into his side, as if she's a child again and the adults can protect her from anything. Peter can't though, Peter is helpless in this and that scares the hell out of him. He pulls Cora close anyway.

Deaton, as it turns out, is out of town, so the Hales spend a tense night eating takeout (Cora point blank refuses to go back in the kitchen) and when it comes time for bed, they all pause before grabbing their bedding and dragging it to the living room for an impromptu sleepover. They try to keep it from the younger kids, but Johnathon and Matty aren't stupid and can tell something is going on, even if they aren't sure what.

Peter wakes up three times to the TV turning itself on. When he looks around the room, he sees Cora and Derek wide awake, the static from the TV screen reflecting off their eyes. Peter tries to force his body to sleep, but it's a long time coming. Eventually, Cora abandons all pretense of sleeping and cuddles into his side, taking comfort in her favorite uncle. It's a few minutes later that Laura presses up against his back. Peter reaches back, arm at an awkward angle, to rest a hand on her leg. Glancing around, he can see Matty snuggled close to Talia, and Johnathon sleeping close to Derek. It's been a while since the pack has been together like this. It's too bad it took something haunting their house to do it.

Deaton shows up the next day while Matty and Johnathon are at school and Cora, Laura, and Derek are at work. David had offered to stay home to meet Deaton with them, but Talia had insisted she and Peter would be fine. Peter wondered how much of it was her wanting to edit what Deaton says to make sure the family isn't too frightened. 

Deaton hums when Peter relays everything that's happened. His face, frustratingly blank as usual, gives nothing away. Peter has no idea if the man even believes them, but he asks if he can walk through the house anyway. Talia tells him to go ahead and they walk with him from room to room. When they get to the bathroom, the sink's water is running. Peter turns it off and they all watch as the knob twists by itself and turns back on.

"Well, it's not fairies," Deaton says.

"What is it?" Talia asks.

"Outside of my pay grade," Deaton says and that's definitely the first time Peter's heard him admit that. "I would guess a low-level haunting."

"A haunting?" Talia says skeptically. 

Deaton spreads his arms in a 'what can I tell you?' gesture.

"I know it's not fairies or any supernatural creature I can think of," Deaton says. "I have a contact who specializes in this area. I'll reach out to him and see if he's available."

Peter expects it to take a while, what are the odds of a ghost specialist being in town? But apparently Deaton's contact is local and is able to meet with them the next day. Peter doesn't know what he'd expected, maybe a carbon copy of Deaton, vague and frustrating, and probably older. Or maybe the lady from Poltergeist, who knows. What he gets is a man named Stiles.

Stiles is about Cora's age, tall and lithe, with tattoos all up and down his arms and one on his tantalizing neck that disappears down the collar of his shirt. Peter's staring, and by the wicked grin on Stiles' face, he notices, but Peter can't help it. This man is so far beyond Peter's normal type that it's a bit ridiculous, but Peter can't help want to follow that tattoo down his neck and see how far it disappears under his clothes. Talia stomps on his foot as if she can tell and really, rude.

They're seated in the Starbucks in Beacon Town Center, not the first place Peter assumed they would meet Deaton's mysterious contact, but Peter's not judging. Stiles is sitting across from Peter and Talia, nursing a passion tea lemonade like he doesn't have a care in the world. He'd at least greeted them formally, introducing himself and making sure to call Talia "Alpha Hale".

"Did Deaton tell you what's going on?" Talia asks.

"He gave me the cliffnotes version," Stiles says. "I'd rather hear it from you, though. You know how he can be."

"Absolutely," Peter says. "Cryptic, I think is the polite way to say it."

Stiles smirks. Talia lets Peter give Stiles the rundown of what's been happening since he's experienced more. The entire time he talks, Peter's aware of just how crazy he sounds. He's sitting in the middle of a Starbucks at 11:00 a.m. talking to this random man about how he thinks his house is haunted. But Stiles isn't looking at him like he's ridiculous, he's nodding along intently. The joking, almost mocking look he'd had at first melts away into something serious. At some point he pulls out a notebook from his bag and starts taking notes while Peter talks.

"Hmm," Stiles says when Peter's done. "How long has this been going on?"

"I think Matty's first experience with the lights was about six weeks ago," Peter says.

"Has there been any physical contact? Anyone touched, pushed, harmed?" Stiles asks.

"No," Peter says.

"Good, that's good," Stiles says. "This isn't meant to be offensive, but I have to ask. Has anyone been dabbling in the occult, maybe summoning something they shouldn't have? Even playing with a Ouija board?"

"No," Talia says. "I mean, not that I know of. It'd be very out of character for anyone if they did."

"It sounds like your garden variety ghost, maybe a low-level poltergeist," Stiles says. "Once they get your attention, activity can ramp up like you've seen."

"A ghost?" Talia says, a little more rude than necessary in Peter's opinion. Stiles raises an eyebrow at the condescending tone. "Are you sure? That seems a bit far-fetched."

"You're werewolves," Stiles says, looking highly amused. "But the concept of a ghost is too much for you?"

Talia blushes a bit, something Peter will savor forever, and says, "There just has to be a logical explanation."

"There is, you have a ghost," Stiles says, sounding exasperated and really, Peter can't blame him. "Look, Deaton wouldn't have called me if he thought something else was going on."

"And what exactly are you?" Peter asks. "Exorcist? Shaman? Witch? Medium?"

"None of the above," Stiles says. "Well, I guess medium is kind of close? You can call me a medium if that helps you."

"And what are you credentials? You seem a little young for this," Talia says.

Stiles' look is a mix between amusement and irritation. Peter is very familiar with that expression, he uses it a lot when he's speaking with Talia. 

"Lady, you reached out to me. It's you that needs help here. I don't get paid for this, I do it out of the goodness of my little heart," Stiles says. "Deaton's your emissary, yeah? If you really think he would send someone shitty your way, well, you need to reevaluate the trust you have in your emissary."

There's a heavy silence that neither of them seem willing to break, so Peter steps in.

"So what do we do?" Peter asks when it becomes obvious that Talia isn't going to speak.

Stiles stares at Talia for a bit longer and Peter is halfway convinced that Stiles is going to walk away from them and refuse to help, but he eventually turns his attention to Peter.

"I'll walk the house, see what we're dealing with. Sometimes I can get your house clean in a day, sometimes it takes a little longer. It just depends on what we're dealing with. When we're done, I can put some additional wards up that'll keep anything from coming back," Stiles says.

"That sounds perfect," Peter says. "I don't want my nieces and nephews afraid of their own home."

Talia's remaining irritation seems to dim at the reminder of her kids and what they're going through.

"Cool. I'm finishing up with a priority case right now, I should be done and my metaphysical batteries recharged in about two to three days," Stiles says.

"Three days? You're saying my house is haunted and it isn't a priority?" Talia says.

"I'm working with a family whose pets have been nailed to trees and the daughter is possessed," Stiles says bluntly. "The only reason I'm even meeting with you today is I'm waiting for a talisman I had FedExed from Scotland to arrive before I can finish their cleansing. You can live with flickering lights for a few more days." 

Really, it makes Peter warm and fuzzy inside to see someone put Talia in her place. He loves his sister, he really does, but she is definitely used to getting her way and it's nice to see her taken down a few notches. Beyond that, Stiles seems to be a veritable fountain of knowledge, knowledge in an area in which Peter has no expertise at all. And he's hungry for more.

Peter tugs Stiles' notebook toward him and writes his number on the corner.

"Call us when you're ready," Peter says.

Stiles looks at Peter calculatingly, eyes glittering with something Peter can't decipher, then leans over, elbows on the little table.

"Actually, I have a proposition for you," Stiles says. 

"Oh?" Peter asks, pulling a politely interested face.

"I'm going to be pulling a demon out of a ten-year-old girl tomorrow," Stiles says. "She's sedated right now, but she'll need to be conscious for the removal. I could use some help keeping her from hurting anyone while I work."

"You need supernatural muscle," Peter says.

"I don't _need_ it," Stiles says. "It would make things easier though if I'm not expending energy keeping her still and drawing out a demon at the same time."

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Talia says.

Peter says, "I'd love to," at the same time.

"Excellent," Stiles says, clapping his hands together as if Talia hadn't spoken. "I'll text you the address and time. Pleasure to meet you both."

With that, Stiles finishes his drink, hops up, and is out the door in seconds. Talia turns to Peter, eyebrows raised.

"You can't possibly want to go with him tomorrow," Talia says.

"Why not?" Peter asks.

"Did you miss the part where it said it was a _demon_?" Talia asks.

"He seems to know what he's doing," Peter says. "Like he said, Deaton trusts him. And aren't you always telling me I should trust Deaton?"

Talia glares at him.

"Fine, on your own head may it be," she snaps, though it's hard for her look menacing when she's eating a blueberry scone.

The confirmation that their house is almost definitely haunted prompts another living room camp out. The mood is at least slightly better than before, everyone hopeful that in a few days, the whole haunting business will be behind them. They even manage to get Cora back in the kitchen, provided she isn't left alone at any time, to help Derek make cookies for dessert. 

After dinner, Peter takes the plate of cookies and a bowl of popcorn to the empty living room and sets them on the coffee table before making his way back to the kitchen to grab napkins and paper plates. 

"Seriously?" Talia shouts.

Peter runs back into the living room to see the popcorn bowl upended on the floor, the cookies nothing but crushed crumbs spread all over the floor. Matty and Johnathon appear next to her a moment later.

"What happened to the cookies?" Matty asks.

"I don't know, baby," Talia says.

"It was the ghost," Johnathon says matter-of-factly. 

Talia, who has been denying anything like that to the kids for weeks, just sighs and doesn't disagree.

Cora is pissed. She was looking forward to those cookies.

Peter doesn't sleep well that night, not with disembodied voices murmuring all night and the lights flicking on at odd moments, but he manages to get a few hours. He wakes around 8:00 a.m. when he gets a text from Stiles. It's just an address and a time. Peter's showered, dressed and out the door in thirty minutes.

Stiles is waiting next to a battered blue jeep when Peter pulls up. Peter hadn't been sure how messy this will get, so he'd worn old jeans and a black v-neck that he doesn't particularly care about. Stiles' jeans are ratty and his t-shirt thin with wear, but Peter can't tell if it's his work clothes or just how he dresses.

"Fancy meeting you here," Stiles says when Peter gets out of his car, running his eyes over Peter appreciatively.

"Such a coincidence," Peter says.

"Okay, quick rundown. Charlotte is the ten-year-old in there with an ancient Celtic demon rattling around in her head," Stiles says. "I'm going to pull it out of her, probably kicking and screaming, and stick it in this magic box I have."

"Magic box," Peter says flatly.

Stiles grins and reaches into the backpack at his feet and pulls out a simple metal box. When Peter looks closely, he can see all kinds of runes etched into it, some that look similar to the tattoos covering Stiles' skin. Peter has no idea what they mean, but he can feel the power buzzing off of it.

"Magic box," Stiles says. "She's still sedated and I have her in a salt and herb circle that'll keep her from getting out, but when the demon figures out what I'm going to do, I wouldn't be surprised if it tries to make her scratch her eyes out or something like that. Her dad is going to help hold her down, but I'd be more comfortable if someone stronger than us measly humans were helping."

"Somehow, I think there's something more than 'measly human' going on with you," Peter says.

Stiles' answering grin is sharp. 

"It'll try to get under our skin. Make us angry, feed on our fear, things like that. It can skim surface thoughts, but not read your mind, not truly delve into it, so don't let it unnerve you. It's looking to make you afraid and unsure," Stiles says. "Let's get started, shall we?"

Don't let the mind reading demon unnerve you. Right. 

The first thing Peter notices walking in the house, besides the darkness, is the smell. Even to a human nose it must reek, but to Peter, it's overwhelming. It stinks of rot, decay, and an almost sour, stinging scent that makes him want to sneeze. In the middle of the room, surrounded by a large circle of salt and green, is ten-year-old Charlotte. Even if Peter weren't able to smell it on her, the look on her face would give it away that what's staring at him isn't human. Her eyes are sharp and black, almost all pupil, and she's holding herself extremely still, following their moments with her eyes only. It's not often that Peter feels like prey, but that's exactly how he's being watched. 

"Mage," the demon sneers. "You brought a dog with you. How quaint."

Peter doesn't react to the comment. He's heard worse. Charlotte's father, hovering a few feet a way from the circle, winces and looks at Peter.

"Still not a mage," Stiles says casually. 

Stiles walks around the demon's circle and sets his bag on the coffee table that's been pushed against the wall. Glancing around, Peter can tell it's a nice home with expensive furnishings, but it's hard to notice any of that with what's in front of him, with all the paintings at odd angles and holes in the walls and the stench surrounding them. 

"You weave magic and you aren't a witch or druid. Mage," the demon says.

"Nah," Stiles says, not bothering to look up as he pulls out items from his bag and sets them on the table. The demon eyes the contents of the bag with a derisive snort.

"You're going to try to exorcise me? Really," the demon says.

"I mean, it's not technically an exorcism. I'm not a Catholic priest," Stiles says. He turns and is holding a circular talisman covered in Celtic knots. The demon, for the first time, looks uneasy. "Peter, Mr. Solomon."

Peter immediately crosses into the circle, careful not to break it, followed by the girl's dad, and grabs a hold of the girl's arm, holding it behind her back. The demon jerks in his hold and if he weren't a werewolf, he isn't sure if he'd be able to hold on. Mr. Solomon certainly is having a hard enough time. Peter holds Charlotte's body tighter, tight enough that he's worried he'll break her arm, but he supposes between a broken arm and a demonic daughter, they'll take the arm.

Stiles walks forward and drops the necklace with the talisman over the girl's head, making the demon shriek and thrash in their arms. Stiles pulls out an old book and flips it open, starting to chant in a language that Peter doesn't understand but thinks might be Gaelic. Stiles' eyes glow, a few shades darker than beta gold, and the tattoos on his arms shine brightly. The demon is screaming, clawing at any exposed skin it can until blood is running down Peter's arms. 

The house around them starts to shake, pictures falling off the walls. The rotting smell gets worse and makes Peter want to gag, but he holds steady, even though the girl is getting harder and harder to keep in place. It's getting more difficult to breathe, the air is suddenly denser, heavier against his chest. It's like he's being squeezed from all sides, his heart racing and ears popping, but Stiles is still just calmly reading from his book, so Peter keeps a tight hold. Mr. Solomon falls to the side, either unconscious or pushed away, Peter doesn't know, but Peter yanks the girl's other arm into his grasp and she lets out an ungodly scream and shudders.

Peter's never seen a demon expelled before, so he isn't sure what it's supposed to look like, but he sees a shadow violently ripped from this girl's body and hover in the air for a long moment as if disoriented. Charlotte slumps to the ground, unconscious. Then, the darkness starts to shrink, condensing itself and getting darker, and Peter can _feel_ the malice emanating from it, can sense its focus on him. He's never felt such anger, such hatred as he feels dripping from its shadowy form, and it's attention is all on him. Peter has the split second to wonder how much damage a demon can get done in a werewolf's body.

Before anything can happen, before Peter can run or the demon can attack him, Stiles is there, snapping the metal box around the shadow. Immediately, the oppressive air clears, the house stops shaking, and Peter can breathe again. Stiles murmurs a few words and the box briefly shimmers with light, sealing itself.

As soon as it's done, Stiles' eyes and tattoos fade back to normal and he staggers where he's standing. Peter leaves Charlotte in her father's arms and is at Stiles' side in an instant, arm at his elbow to keep him from tipping over. Stiles blinks at him slowly, like it's taking a lot of energy to keep his eyes open.

"Fucker was stronger than I hoped he'd be. I'm okay, I'm good. Wow, you're firm," Stiles says, patting Peter's arm. Peter snorts out a laugh. "Ugh, shut up."

Stiles pulls away from Peter, a little steadier, and walks over to where Charlotte is just waking up with Mr. Solomon.

"Mr. Stiles?" Charlotte asks. 

With the demon gone, her high and clear voice isn't nearly as creepy as it was before. 

"Hey, kiddo," Stiles says, smiling down at her. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," she says. "My head hurts."

"Yeah, that'll stick around for a few days, unfortunately," Stiles says.

"Is the bad man gone?" Charlotte asks. "I can't hear him anymore. He said he was gonna kill Mommy! And Dad and Andrew - "

"It's gone," Stiles says, covering his hand with one of his own. His palm glows slightly, but Peter doesn't think Charlotte or her dad notice. "I'm going to make you a special necklace with a symbol that'll keep anything from coming back, okay? And when you're older, you can get it tattooed like mine."

Stiles turns his arm, showing a sigil tattooed on the inside of his wrist. 

"Thank you," Mr. Solomon says. "I can't express...thank you."

"You're welcome," Stiles says. He packs up his bag, letting the Charlotte and her dad talk in low voices until he's ready to leave. "Tell your son not to fuck around with ancient artifacts anymore, all right?" 

Mr. Solomon nods but doesn't get up from where he's hugging his daughter.

"I need about a year of sleep," Stiles says when they get outside. "Now you see why I can't just hop over to your house today?"

"It was Talia that was pushing that, not me," Peter reminds him.

"Fair," Stiles says. "Well, thanks for the help, I'm gonna head home and -"

"Oh absolutely not," Peter says. 

Stiles blinks up at him.

"What?"

"You're not fit to be driving right now," Peter says.

"I'm fine," Stiles says with an eye roll. "I've been doing this for years."

"Uh huh, and how many times have you wrapped your car around a tree?"

"Only twice!" Stiles says. "And one of those was from blood loss!"

"Right," Peter says. "Come on, I'm driving you home. And you're going to eat something, I don't want you dropping dead because you used all your energy."

"Sure, Dad," Stiles says, but he lets Peter bundle him into his Jaguar. 

Stiles gives Peter directions back to his house, after a quick pit stop at McDonald's. Peter had been expecting a hotel and is surprised when he arrives at an old Victorian house toward the edge of Beacon Hills.

"I told you I was local," Stiles says. "Got a steal of a deal on the house because a ghoul was haunting the basement."

"Deaton made it sound like you were a traveling...consultant," Peter says. "I assumed you didn't bother having a place here."

"Might as well. Beacon Hills is a supernatural hot spot, a whole lot of my work takes place here anyways," Stiles says as he lets them in. The house is bright and clean, full of the old world charm that Peter loves so much. He'd happily spend all day studying the architecture if he weren't sure Stiles is a few moments from passing out. 

"Where's your kitchen?" Peter asks.

"Through there," Stiles says, nodding to a door on the other end of the foyer. "Why?"

"I'm cooking," Peter says, walking past a squawking Stiles. 

"What? Why? I just ate!" Stiles says trailing after.

"You wolfed down french fries and a root beer," Peter says. "That doesn't count."

The kitchen is big and beautiful, Peter's dream kitchen to be honest, done with dark cabinets and a beautiful marble counter top. It's clean too, as if Stiles hardly spends any time in here (Peter has the sneaking suspicion that that's true). Peter opens the fridge, then turns to a sheepish Stiles, one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, I uh, haven't gone grocery shopping this week?" Stiles says.

"Stiles, all you have in here is mustard, expired eggs, and tortillas," Peter says.

"It's...uh...grocery week?" Stiles tries.

"Every week should be grocery week," Peter says. "I'm ordering takeout. What's your opinion on Chinese food?"

"I have like ten take out menus in the drawer next to the silverware," Stiles says. "So, opinion's pretty high."

"Unbelievable," Peter says.

Apparently the people from Mandarin Garden really like Stiles, because their order comes way quicker than Peter had imagined, and they're given an extra order of chow mein and about a dozen fortune cookies. When Peter pays, he realizes they only charged for about half the food. 

"I helped them with a vengeful spirit problem," Stiles explains with a mouthful of fried rice. "Mrs. Liu's dead husband wasn't thrilled about her new marriage."

"Sounds stressful," Peter says.

"We were really close to a paranormal episode of Jerry Springer," Stiles says.

They're sitting on the couch in Stiles' living room with food boxes spread out in front of them, almost close enough for their arms to brush when they eat. Stiles has a little more energy now that he has some food in him, but he still seems to be drained. Peter encourages him to take another egg roll.

Peter also isn't above using this to his advantage. 

"When you touched Charlotte's hand and it glowed, what was that?" Peter asks.

"Just a little something to take the edge off the headache, maybe help her get some sleep," Stiles says with a shrug.

"And that sigil," Peter says, nodding to Stiles' forearm. "The one from the necklace you gave Charlotte. It protects against possession?"

"Kind of," Stiles says evasively. Peter doesn't look away, but Stiles just stuffs the rest of the egg roll into his mouth. Peter doesn't say anything, just keeps looking at him with his eyebrows raised until Stiles finally huffs. "It keeps someone from being possessed again."

"Again..." Peter says slowly.

Stiles' face has lost all its playfulness, the pleasantly sleepy quality, and is now hard and guarded. Peter almost regrets asking. Almost.

"Again. Why do you think I can do what I can, why I can do what even Deaton can't?" Stiles says. "We got it out of me in the end, but it left some of itself behind. That's what lets me see the paranormal crap that's haunting people. That's what lets me pull it out."

Stiles is sitting very tensely, as if he's waiting for Peter to recoil, to think he's a monster. As if it's Stiles' fault. Well, Peter's spent a lot of his life being considered a monster by many people, and he knows one when he sees it. Peter reaches out slowly, not wanting to scare Stiles, and brushes his fingers against the tattooed sigil. Stiles shivers.

"Does that mean that if you've been possessed once, you're more vulnerable to it happening again?" Peter asks softly.

"Yeah," Stiles says, then clears his throat. "Yeah, uh. It's not like if you have chicken pox and you become immune. It's like you covered a hole in a brick wall with a tarp. Just a little pressure and it'll blow away and something else will get in."

"And yet you still spend your days with demons and spirits," Peter says, still tracing the sigil. "Why?"

"If Magda hadn't helped me, I'd be dead. Or worse, I'd be along for the ride as my body kept doing...really terrible things," Stiles says. He taps the pads of his fingers against Peter's arm as he speaks. "I can do things that others can't. If something good can come out of what happened, I have to do it."

"Can everyone who's been possessed do what you can?" Peter asks. "I feel like we'd have heard more about people with your...abilities."

"No," Stiles says. "Most people, like Charlotte, won't have any lasting 'abilities' like me. What was in me was older and worse."

Stiles says it as casually as he can, as if 'older and worse' are words enough to cover the massive grief and unhappiness rolling off him. 

"I didn't mean to upset you," Peter says. "Change of subject. Tell me about your tattoos. Are they are sigils?"

"Some of them," Stiles says, clinging to the new topic like a life raft. "Some help with focusing energy, minor spell work, things like that. Some are just pretty."

"They are," Peter agrees, his fingers trailing from the sigil up Stiles' arm, tracing over the red fox that disappears under the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Stiles blushes, his heart beating a little faster at the touch. It would be nothing for Peter to lean in and kiss him, to see how far down that blush travels. To show him how unafraid Peter is of him, how he isn't tainted by what happened to him. 

Then Stiles yawns. A huge, body-shaking yawn right in Peter's face, accompanied by grimace. Peter snorts.

"I am so sorry, dude! I promise I didn't meant to yawn in your face," Stiles says. 

"It's fine," Peter says. "You should sleep, your eyes are barely open. I'll see you, Stiles."

"Or you could stay," Stiles blurts out. His eyes widen, like he didn't mean to say that, and adds, "I mean, only if you want to. I'll probably be dead to the world for a bit, but human contact is always good after I do a big spirit yank or whatever, and werewolves always make fun human pillows. Or not, you know, if that's not your thing, you probably have shit to do anyways, so, uh - "

"I can stay," Peter says, cutting off what he's sure would be an epically long ramble. "If you want me to."

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Yeah, I do."

"Okay," Peter says simply. 

It's very intriguing for Peter to watch Stiles go from the unaffected, completely controlled, sarcastic and capable demon hunter to a soft, slightly awkward, blushing bundle of nervous energy. Stiles constantly glances over his shoulder at Peter as they walk up the stairs, as if he needs to make sure that he's actually following. As if Peter would want to be anywhere else.

Stiles' bedroom is large and bright with a big bulletin board on one wall that's covered with newspaper articles and photocopies of old book pages, all with different colored string criss-crossing over it. Stiles catches him looking while he kicks off his shoes.

"I like to keep an eye on paranormal happenings," Stiles says. "If I'm between clients or if there's something seriously fucked up going on, I can go take a look."

"Have you ever gotten hurt on these little excursions?" Peter asks, eyes trailing over accounts of a poltergeist in Portland.

"A few," Stiles says with a shrug. 

Stiles yanks the blankets back of his messy, unmade bed. He bites his lip, seemingly debating with himself for a minute, before unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down, blushing furiously as he steps out of them. There are tattoos on his legs too, all the way down his thighs and to his calves. There are a few empty spaces toward his ankles, but that's about it. Peter loves it.

"I'm not sleeping in jeans, pants are terrible," Stiles says. "So, hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Peter says. 

Peter kicks off his shoes and unbuttons his own pants, extremely gratified with how Stiles' eyes follow the movement of his fly being pulled down. Stiles glances up and sees Peter watching him and blushes again, looking away as Peter pushes his jeans down his thighs. 

"Yeah, uh, good," Stiles says, swallowing hard. He busies himself with closing the drapes, letting only a sliver of daylight in, and sliding under the sheets, avoiding Peter's eyes the whole time.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?" Peter asks.

"Nope," Stiles says, crawling into bed. "Nope, uh, just the opposite in fact."

"Good," Peter says. 

Peter slides under the blankets next to Stiles and immediately tugs the other man to him. Stiles lets out a squeak of surprise, but doesn't fight it as Peter nuzzles against the back of his neck, his arms securely around his waist. Stiles is still for a moment, then wiggles back against Peter, getting comfortable. 

"Thanks for staying," Stiles murmurs, voice already fading as he gets closer and closer to sleep. "Sometimes it's good to just not be alone, ya know?"

"I know," Peter says, voice soft. 

It's only a few more minutes until Stiles drops off to sleep, dead to the world. Apparently, exorcising a demon takes it out of you. Peter had assumed he would lie there for a while, but he falls asleep easily, not something he usually does in new places with new people, but his nights have been full of interrupted sleep and he's more than ready for a nap. Maybe it's something about the company, or the warm feeling and comfortable scent of Stiles' home, but he sleeps long and he sleeps hard.

When Peter wakes, he's a bit disoriented. The light coming in from the gap in the curtains tells his it's mid-afternoon. Stiles is still completely passed out, though he'd migrated so Peter's on his back and Stiles' cheek is now resting on Peter's chest. Peter's groggy and isn't sure at first what had woken him up, then he hears his phone buzzing in his jeans next to the bed. Peter would love to ignore it, to just bury his face in Stiles' hair and go back to sleep, but odds are the call is from Talia and really, it's just not smart to willfully ignore your alpha.

Regretfully, Peter untangles himself from Stiles and leans out of bed, fishing his phone out from his jeans pocket before settling back on the mattress. Stiles, as if drawn to his body heat, immediately curls back into his side. There are two missed calls from Talia. Peter, not willing to shatter the quiet peacefulness of the room, texts her back instead of calling.

_To: Talia  
Yes?_

Talia's response is almost instantaneous.

**From: Talia  
Where are you? Why aren't you answering your phone?**

_To: Talia  
I'm with Stiles. And I didn't want to wake him up._

**From: Talia  
Still?  
What do you mean, wake him up?  
Did you sleep with him?  
PETER?**

_To: Talia  
Relax. We just napped._

**From: Talia  
For the love of god, Peter. Fine. I need you to come home. You said you'd watch Matty and Johnathon tonight.**

Peter sighs. He had said that, hadn't he? 

_To: Talia  
Fine._

As loathe as he is to do it, Peter slides out of bed. Stiles makes a discontented noise and rolls over into the spot where Peter had been laying. Peter snorts fondly and pulls on his pants, followed by his shoes. Leaning over, Peter brushes Stiles' hair away from his forehead and presses a light kiss there. When he pulls back, Stiles' eyes are fluttering open.

"P'ter?" he asks groggily.

"I have to go, sweetheart," Peter says. "I'm watching the younger ones tonight."

"Mm, okay," Stiles says. 

"I'll pick you up tomorrow morning so we can get your jeep, okay?" Peter says. 

"Don't worry about it, I can get it later tonight," Stiles says. He's soft and sleep-rumpled and Peter is a bit alarmed at how much he wants to lean down and kiss him, properly this time, not on the forehead. 

"Are you sure?" Peter asks.

"Yeah, I'm getting dinner with Scotty later anyway," Stiles says. 

"Scotty?" Peter asks, trying to keep his face neutral.

It doesn't seem to work, Stiles just smirks and says, "Scott's my brother from another mother. Don't worry, dude."

"I wasn't worried," Peter says and that was a little too quick of a denial to be smooth.

"Uh huh," Stiles says with a grin. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, swaying a bit. "Head rush, whoa. Okay, come on, I'll walk you out."

On the front porch, before Peter turns to go, Stiles leans forward and presses a kiss to Peter's cheek. 

"I'll talk to you later, Peter," Stiles says. He winks and closes the door.

Peter stands there a bit stunned for a moment, before making his way off Stiles' porch and to his car. He was kissed on _the cheek_ , there's no reason for him to be grinning as much as he is now, but, well, here he is.

Peter picks up pizza for Matty and Johnathon on the way home, hoping it'll bribe them into behaving tonight. Talia glares a little and Peter can tell she wants to ask what happened with Stiles, but David reminds her that they have dinner reservations, so she doesn't get the chance to interrogate him.

Whatever is haunting their home seems to be in a rather polite mood tonight because it waits until Matty and Johnathon are done with their homework to start making a racket. At first they can barely hear it, thinking maybe it's a trick of the wind. Then, more loudly, footsteps start to echo from the second floor. Peter mutes the TV and he, Matty, and Johnathon all look up at the ceiling at once, then glance over at each other.

"You heard that, right?" Johnathon asks.

"Yeah," Matty says.

They're quiet for a few moments, thinking it's passed, then more footsteps. Louder this time, and directly over head.

"You're not going up there, are you?" Matty asks when Peter stands.

"I am," Peter says.

He has to. Yeah, the strange noises have been a presence for the last few weeks, but what if this is by something living, not whatever paranormal entity that's floating around? What if there's a hunter or a rogue omega or something else upstairs? He knows that odds are it's nothing, but if he didn't check and something happened to the boys, he doesn't think he'd be able to live with it.

The footsteps are still echoing as Peter walks upstairs, but as soon as he sets foot on the upper landing, they stop. Peter frowns and walks down the hall where he thinks he heard the steps last. It's Talia and David's room, and Peter feels no guilt whatsoever in going in while they're not home. He doesn't hear anything, no heartbeats and nothing breathing, but as he's learned from Stiles, that doesn't mean there isn't anything there.

Peter opens the door just in time to see Talia's wedding photo go flying off the nightstand and smash into the wall two feet from Peter's face, the glass shattering. Peter sees a face. He swears, he sees a face next to the nightstand where the picture frame had been a minute ago. As soon as Peter realizes he sees it, it vanishes, the entire nightstand tips over and crashes to the ground, scattering books, pens, and Talia's phone charger. Peter slams the door shut. He doesn't run from the room, but it's a near thing. Peter's feet carry him quickly down the stairs, thumps and crashes echoing from Talia and David's room. Matty and Johnathon are sitting where he'd left them, eyes wide and frightened. 

"What was that?" Johnathon asks.

"Here," Peter says, pulling his car keys out from his pocket and tossing them to Johnathon. "You two, get in my car. I'll be right there."

Johnathon grabs Matty by the hand and pulls him out of the front door, both of them sprinting to where Peter's Jag is parked. Peter only takes the time to grab their pre-packed bags and lock the door behind him before he's out of the house, the racket of the master bedroom being destroyed loud in his ears. He tosses the bags into the trunk and peels out of the driveway in less than ten seconds. The bags are something Talia's had them do for years. Yes, werewolves aren't hunted in the shadows anymore, but now that the supernatural is known, there is plenty of bigotry to go around and you never know when you need to make a quick getaway. Talia had made them all pack overnight bags and put them in a closet near the front door in case they need to make a quick escape. Peter's glad for her forethought.

Peter waits until they're out of the driveway to call Talia. A look in the review mirror shows all the lights in the house flickering before Peter turns a corner and it disappears from view. Matty and Johnathon are huddled together in the backseat, reeking of fear, but they aren't crying. 

_"Peter?"_ Talia answers the phone on the fifth ring. 

"Don't go home," Peter says.

_"What's going on?"_ Talia asks, immediately snapping into alpha mode.

"I don't want to discuss it with present company," Peter says, glancing in the mirror at the boys in the backseat. "But it isn't safe."

_"Okay, I trust you,"_ Talia says. Peter sighs in relief. If there's one thing Talia has always trusted him on, it's the safety of their pack. He's glad that hasn't changed. _"I'll call Laura, Derek, and Cora. Where are you going?"_

"The Marriott downtown," Peter says.

_"I'll call and make a reservation. We'll get the check and be there as soon as we can,"_ Talia says.

"We'll see you then."

Peter hangs up and waits until he's at a red light to dial Stiles. It's 9:30, so he doesn't know if he'll be sleeping or not but, well, he doesn't think this can wait.

_"Hey,"_ Stiles says when he answers the phone. He sounds genuinely pleased to hear from Peter and Peter hates that this isn't a social call.

"I'm sorry to call so late, but we just had to run out of the house," Peter says.

_"What happened?"_ Stiles asks, voice serious.

Peter still really doesn't want to go over it in front of the kids, but if anyone needs to know, it's Stiles.

"A picture frame flew at my head, then furniture started overturning and things started flying around the room," Peter says. 

_"Are you okay? Was anyone hurt?"_ Stiles asks.

"We're fine. The kids were downstairs when it happened, it was just me in the room," Peter says.

_"I'll be there first thing tomorrow morning,"_ Stiles says.

"Don't you need more time to recover?" Peter asks.

_"I should fine after tonight. You did the right thing leaving,"_ Stiles says.

Peter lets out a harsh breath. He isn't used to this, to feeling scared. He isn't used to enemies that he can't tear his way through with claws and fangs. He isn't used to not being able to defend his pack (and that's what he's good for, defending his family). 

"Thank you," Peter says.

_"You're welcome. I know it's hard, but try to get some sleep tonight, I might need your help tomorrow,"_ Stiles says.

"I will," Peter says. "I have to go, we're pulling up at the hotel."

_"I'll meet you at your house at 8:00 a.m.,"_ Stiles says.

"I'll be there. Goodnight, Stiles," Peter says.

_"Goodnight, Peter."_

Peter parks and walks around to the back passenger's side door, opening it up and crouching down so he's eye-level with Matty and Johnathon. Johnathon still has his arm around his younger brother, but he looks just as afraid.

"I know that was scary," Peter says. "And I know it doesn't make any sense, but you were very brave. Tomorrow, a friend is going to come to the house and make it all stop."

"Promise?" Matty asks. 

Peter should hesitate at that; he has no reason to trust Stiles implicitly, and yet he does. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that Stiles will do everything he can to make their house safe.

"I promise," Peter says.

Matty throws himself forward, collapsing against Peter's chest. Peter wraps his arm around Matty's back and reaches out, drawing Johnathon to them. They sit like that for a long moment, scenting each other and hugging until Peter pulls back.

"Okay, grab your bags, let's go inside," Peter says.

The reservations are waiting for them and after checking in, Peter and the kids make their way to the suite Talia had reserved for them. Peter has them wash up and brush their teeth before tucking them in to the pullout sofa bed. He'd worried they wouldn't be able to sleep, too wound up from earlier, but apparently running on that much adrenaline and fear is exhausting because Johnathon and Matty fall asleep quickly, curled around each other. 

Peter sits in a nearby chair and just watches them sleep. Intellectually, he's sure they're safe here (are they? You hear about haunted hotels, are those rumors? Peter would think he's being ridiculous, but up until a few months ago, he'd thought haunting in general were ridiuclous and here they are), but he can't force himself to relax. It's a relief when Talia and David arrive, quietly opening the door. 

"They're asleep," Peter whispers, and beckons them through the double doors into the other room of the suite where they can have more privacy.

"What happened?" Talia asks when they door is shut behind them, cutting off their voices from carrying to where the boys are sleeping.

Peter gives them rundown, of the picture flying across the room, the face he saw, the furniture moving, and the lights when they left. Talia and David are pale when he finishes, and he knows they're thinking the same thing he is; how do you protect your family from this?

"I called Stiles. He's coming to the house tomorrow morning," Peter says.

"Good," Talia says. "That's good, the sooner this is over with, the better."

"He asked for me to be there in case he needs help with anything," Peter says.

Talia nods.

"I'm coming too," she says. "This is my pack, and I want to make sure the threat is gone."

Peter doesn't argue with her, knowing it's pointless to try.

Laura, Derek, and Cora drift in an hour or so later, all very confused. When Peter tells them what happened, Cora says she's all in favor of just burning the place to the ground and starting over.

"I don't know if that would do any good," Peter says. "Stiles says entities aren't always tied to the structure, sometimes it's to the land or the people."

"I hate this," Cora hisses. "I hate being afraid of my own house. And it's always been fine! It's been fine for years! Why now?"

"I don't know," Peter says. "Hopefully we'll know tomorrow."

It takes a while for everyone to calm down enough to sleep. Once Peter finally does drop off, it seems like it's no time at all before he's getting up and getting dressed. He and Talia leave as quietly as they can, trying not to wake the others, and head down to Peter's car. The drive is quiet, neither of them speaking until they're driving down their long driveway.

"Do you trust Stiles?" Talia asks. She's looking at him steadily and in a way that is surprisingly void of judgement, full of just quiet curiosity.

"I do," Peter says.

Talia just nods. "Okay," she says. 

They park a little farther from the house than they normally do. The lights aren't flickering anymore like they were when Peter and the kids had left the night before, but just because it looks calm doesn't mean it is. They stay in the car until they hear the rumble of Stiles' jeep. Stiles pulls up next to them, face serious. He gets out of the jeep, his backpack over one shoulder.

"Alpha Hale," Stiles says, nodding respectfully. "Peter."

"Good morning," Talia says. 

"Well, you ready to get started?" Stiles asks. 

"Yes. What do you need us to do?" Talia asks.

"To start with, nothing. I'm going to walk through the house, see what I see. If it's something more complicated than a simple haunting, sometimes I need assistants for a cleansing ritual, but I won't know that until I see what we're dealing with," Stiles says.

"We can do that," Talia says. 

Talia leads the way to their house and lets them in. The lights are all off and won't turn on when they try the switch. The living room is a disaster. Pillows are ripped apart, feathers covering the sofa. Books are on the ground next to the bookcases, and all of the pictures on the wall are either on the ground or hanging upside down. 

Stiles hums and steps over what he can. They drift from room to room, watching Stiles take everything in. His eyes rove over everything, from the bedding in Matty's room that's shredded on the floor, to the hand prints covering the ceiling of Peter's room. When they get to Talia's room, Peter's eyes widen. All the furniture is either on it's side or upside down, broken glass everywhere and clothes strewn throughout the room, the closet doors wide open. Stiles clicks his tongue, but doesn't make a comment.

The house feels quiet and still, more still than it's been in a long time. It's almost like it's holding it's breath, waiting for something. In the kitchen, all the drawers and cabinets are open, silverware littering the floor. A long chef's knife is sitting alone on the counter. The lights in here don't work either.

Stiles doesn't say anything, but leads them back into the living room. He pushes some feathers off the coffee table and sets his backpack down. Peter and Talia watch as he pulls out a mason jar with a white, milky substance, another jar with a green paste, and a small bowl. Humming a little under his breath, Stiles mixes about a tablespoon of each in the bowl until it's a dark green paste.

"This helps act as a focus," Stiles says in answer to Peter's questioning look. "It'll help me call out the spirit if it tries to resist."

They watch as Stiles traces intricate runes on the backs of his hands in the thick, green paste, eyes widening slightly as it glows bright for a moment before fading back to normal.

"It doesn't feel malicious, even though it's been violent with your possessions, so that's something," Stiles muses. "All right, let's see what we're dealing with here."

Stiles closes his eyes and his exposed tattoos light up like they did the other day at the Solomons' house. Stiles starts murmuring in a smooth, flowing language that Peter can't identify. The house seems to shudder, but Stiles keep going in his calm voice. The lights that stubbornly refused to turn on are now flickering on and off, but Stiles pays them no mind at all.

"Okay you little shit, what are we - "Stiles cuts himself off, staring at the space in front of him, face morphing in exasperation. "Seriously, dude?"

"What?" Talia asks, but Stiles doesn't look over.

"You're kidding, right?" Stiles says. "A little theatrical, don't you think?" Stiles pauses, as if he's listening to something they can't hear. "Oh, you were _bored,_ well that's all okay then. Come on, dude. If you were alive, I'd hit you with a big ass stick."

"What's going on?" Peter asks. 

"Oh, you wanna see the little shit that's been haunting you?" Stiles asks. 

Stiles makes a quick hand motion that Peter can't follow and suddenly a body materializes in front of Stiles. It's a male, about six feet tall, hovering a few inches off the floor. He isn't transparent, but he isn't really solid either, like his figure is blurred around the edges. And he looks nothing like Peter would have expected.

The ghost, spirit, whatever, is wearing light cargo shorts, Nikes, a blue t-shirt that has a picture of a taco cat on it, and a backwards baseball cap. What the fuck.

"Talia, Peter, this is Greenberg. We went to high school together and a few months ago, he got drunk and crashed his car going too fast around a corner a few miles from here," Stiles says conversationally. "Out of curiosity, are you permanently drunk since that's how you died? That'd suck. Anyway, he's been fucking with you guys because he thinks it's _funny_."

"Funny?" Talia asks. "Funny? He thinks it's funny to terrorize my children and wreck my home?"

"To be fair, he's never had the best sense of humor," Stiles says. "But yep. Nothing demonic or malicious. Not even a baby poltergeist, just a run of the mill ghost."

The ghost, Greenberg, frowns at that. His mouth moves like he's talking, but no sound comes out. Stiles seems to hear whatever he's saying just fine though, and rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, no. You drove drunk and have been pulling the tails of werewolves, I got no sympathy for you, dude," Stiles says. "Two options. One, you move on by yourself. Go toward the light, emerge into the great beyond, ride eternal in Valhalla, whatever. Option two, I force you out, and it'll probably hurt. Believe me, you doing it yourself is better. Put your soul at peace and all that."

The ghost's mouth moves again and his face scrunches in pain, like he's pleading with Stiles. 

"Absolutely not," Stiles says. "The message to your mother, yes. But I will not put on Hoobastank for you 'one last time'."

"Oh my god," Peter says. 

It's like falling into an alternate reality. He'd been prepared for a giant, black creature with horns, or an old Victorian woman covered in blood, or an angry Native American spirit, but a twenty-something-year-old Hoobastank fan? That's who's been frightening his family? He's never going to live this down.

"Look. You have ten seconds to start hightailing it to ever after until I boot you out. One. Two," Stiles says. The ghost crosses his arms defiantly. "I'm not fucking with you. Three. Four."

The ghost looks a little nervous, then downright scared. Peter can understand, he's sure dying is traumatic and the idea of moving into the great unknown is terrifying. But, he terrorized his family, and for that Peter feels no sympathy. 

Stiles gets to ten and the ghost is still there. Stiles sighs and raises his hand, palm toward the ghost. His eyes shine that bright gold, his tattoos glowing brighter. He doesn't say anything, just stares ahead with his hand outstretched. The blurry edges around the ghost start to ripple, then the image flashes, almost like the flickering of a TV channel losing its signal. The ghost's face is panicked, and scrunches up like he's in pain, then with a flash, he's gone. 

The house instantly feels lighter, like the oppressive air around them has lifted. The lights flicker on and stay on. Talia heaves a sigh of relief next to Peter. Peter knows how she feels.

"Are you okay?" Peter asks when Stiles lists a bit to the side.

"Yeah, I'm good," Stiles says. "I hate doing that, ya know? But it's not good for them to stick around. They start getting malevolent and dangerous."

"Thank you, Stiles," Talia says, taking Stiles' hand and shaking it. Apparently, seeing a real ghost floating around and gettingg blasted out of her living room has removed her suspicions of Stiles being a quack. "Is there anything I can do to repay you?"

"Well," Stiles says slyly, eyes sliding to Peter. "You can let this one off of cleanup duty so he can buy me breakfast. Banishing ghosts takes a lot out of you."

Peter grins. 

"I think that can be arranged," Peter says.

"Yeah, go, whatever," Talia says, looking around the mess that is her living room. "Derek, Laura, and Cora can help."

"Excellent," Peter says. 

Stiles wipes the paste off his hands before packing everything away into his backpack. Peter rests his hand on Stiles' lower back, steering him out of the house. They leave Talia sorting through the smashed remains of the living room and drive off, setting their sights on the nearest diner, Stiles declaring that he needs French toast ASAP.

"I'm honestly surprised that we were haunted by someone so...recently deceased," Peter says when they slide into the cherry red booth at Mable's Diner.

"Yeah, fresh ghosts are always interesting ones," Stiles says. "They've kinda gotten more common since the big supernatural reveal seventy-five years ago. No one's really sure why."

"I was expecting it to be something you see in a bad horror movie, like cursed land or an ancient Native American burial ground," Peter says. "Not a kid in cargo shorts."

"Yeah, well, we're all fashion victims are some time or another," Stiles says. "You've hit the nail on the head about one of my biggest pet peeves when I work on people's houses, though. I hate it when people call me and are all, 'Well, I heard this was Native American land...'. Well no shit. This is America, everything was Native American land until they Europeans came over and ruined everything."

Peter blinks at Stiles.

"That's...a very good point," Peter says. He leans forward, unable to hide his eagerness, and says, "Tell me more about what's bullshit in the paranormal field."

"You really wanna know? That could take a while," Stiles says with a grin.

"I'm counting on it," Peter says.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [ tumblr ](http://www.hotpinklizard.tumblr.com).


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